Page 6 of I Blame the Club

“As long as you do the proper research and collect legitimate data, you’ll do just fine.”

The elevator dings and we head for the parking garage. Corey sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, “You're kind of a dick ninety percent of the time but I’ll miss you.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

He laughs, “Ouch.”

Our steps echo off the pavement as we walk towards our cars, our respective rides side-by-side. I don’t consider my co-workers my friends, the fact that their pay checks come from my father is reason enough, but if I were to have a favourite, it would be Corey.

“I will miss watching you try and park every morning.” Amusement seeps into my voice as I look at the tiny Honda Civic parked next to my black Cadillac.

“I genuinely don’t know how you drive that behemoth. My parking anxiety is bad enough in a car.” He shakes his head, stealing a sideways glance at me, “Are you excited about the transition? Most people would say taking time off to be an assistant coach is a step backward career-wise.”

I shrug, “It’s only temporary and I felt like a change in scenery.”

“Couldn’t be me. A small town in Southern Alberta sounds way too limiting, never mind a small university town.”

“Taber University has its charms. I’ll get to see my sister and catch up with some old friends while I’m there.”

“Like I said, couldn’t be me. Bring me back some corn though, eh?” Corey laughs and slaps me on the back, “Guess I’ll see you around, Mo. Take care of yourself.”

I smile, “You too.”

Corey climbs into his car and I give him one last wave before climbing into mine. As I pull out of my father’s office building, I take my first breath of fresh air.

Freedom at last.

Nico

“He’s probably uglier than I remember.”

Wes is helping me set up the lacrosse nets as we prepare for the first practice of the season. We're officially sophomores, but the 5AM wake-up call still hurts like a bitch.

“I thought we agreed never to speak of Devon again.”

Wes lets out a curse as his side of the net falls to the ground. I wander over to give him a hand.

“Oh God, not that man. I’m talking about Mighty Mo.” I roll my eyes at the nickname, one that Wes has fangirled over more than once.

The guy was an outstanding forward player. We get it.

Wes grins, “He’s big and a douche. Totally your type.”

Well, then.

“I don’t go for douchebags. Look at Devon.”

We both groan at the name, one that resulted in the local grocery store selling out of their floss section.

“Face it, Nico. If there’s alcohol in your system,everyoneis your type.”

He’s not wrong. Beer goggles are a beautiful thing.

I sigh, “You’re right. Let’s go check out the new recruits.”

A group has formed by the benches lining the field, the tired faces and nervous energy giving away the rookies immediately. Crazy to think that was Wes and me a year ago.

“Welcome to the first practice of the season!” Hyping up the early risers, I let out a whoop of excitement as Wes introduces the newest members.

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